


Refuge

by ebbj9891



Series: In Quest Of Something [66]
Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Angst, Dysfunctional Family, Established Relationship, M/M, Married Life, POV Third Person, Past Child Abuse, Post-Series, Relationship Issues, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-24
Updated: 2014-09-27
Packaged: 2018-02-18 14:48:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2352215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ebbj9891/pseuds/ebbj9891
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>New York was a blessing for many reasons. Perhaps most importantly, it proved to be a refuge for Brian. He hasn't concerned himself with his estranged family in years, believing them to be gone from his life and best forgotten. This all goes up in flames when his mother arrives unexpectedly, claiming to want a part in not only Brian's life, but Justin's as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Life is good,_ Brian thinks to himself as he makes his way back into Kinnetik.

He's just landed himself another account over lunch - it's only a small one, but it's something interesting. He does so love the interesting ones. There are clients he could please whilst half asleep, which is often what it feels like with the bigger, boring ones, who always opt for the safer avenues. Then there are clients who demand something new, something exciting, something challenging. Brian adores those clients, whether they're small fry or not. Who cares how little money they bring in, so long as they're also bringing in some variety, some flavour, some spark? He's excited by these clients and the work he'll be doing for them. That means a fuck of a lot more to him these days than the size of the account.

He immediately seeks out Cynthia, as he's dying to boast to her and indulge in one of their marathon sessions of smug gloating. She's not at her desk, so he goes searching for her in creative's workroom, where she's most likely to be.

And indeed she is - except she's not marching around, barking out commands. She's talking to Louise, looking resigned and fragile.

What the fuck?

Concerned, Brian swiftly steals her away from Louise and pulls her into an empty office. Watching her carefully, he asks, "Are you okay?"

She blinks at him, then sighs heavily. "No, I'm not."

His worry intensifying, Brian places his hands on her shoulders and demands, "What's wrong?"

Cynthia's gaze flickers between him and the door. "I don't know how to... goddamnit.  _Shit!_ _"_

"Out with it," Brian insists. "Tell me what's wrong."

She looks at him, dread shadowing her face, and confesses, "Your mother is in your office."

The words slam into him and send him reeling.

As Brian stares at Cynthia, he registers how upset she looks. He's never heard her voice tremble, but it starts to quiver when she says, "I was away from my desk, talking to Jasper, and when I got back she was sitting in your office. I tried to get her to leave but nothing was working... I'm sorry. I didn't know what to do."

Well, that makes two of them. At least he's in good company. Setting aside his own horror for one moment, Brian decides to assuage hers. He settles his hands on her shoulders and says, "It's okay."

It isn't.

"It's alright," he lies. 

It's not even remotely alright.

"Go and get everything ready for the Thompson meeting. Make sure Jasper and Louise are on point with their presentation. I'll deal with this."

Cynthia nods, still looking utterly distraught. Brian kisses her forehead and murmurs, "It's okay."

What he really means is:  _this isn't your fault._ She looks so fucking guilty right now, and he can't stand it. He wouldn't dare blame Cynthia for this unexpected shitstorm.

"Thanks," she says, her voice still trembling uncharacteristically. Brian wraps his arms around her for a moment, hugging her close. As far as the two of them are concerned, they're okay.

It's just everything else that is completely fucked up.

Cynthia takes a moment to gather herself and put on her game face. Brian smiles encouragingly at her, then watches with pride as she marches out with sharp eyes and squared shoulders. As soon as she's gone, he mimics the process: he takes a deep breath, steadies himself, and then strides towards his office with a totally fabricated sense of bravado.

And there she is - his mother. Joan Kinney is sitting in his office, positioned primly in one of the leather armchairs facing his desk. He's reminded of how she used to present herself at church; her hands clasped in her lap, her back dead straight, her chin held high. Only she's so much older. Brian is almost staggered by how much she's aged; it's been almost ten years, of course, but nobody else he knows has aged this radically. Well, maybe Gus, who is now almost as tall as Brian is. Justin, the lucky little shit that he is, still looks like he's been guzzling from the Fountain of Youth. Brian, who tragically found a grey hair two weeks ago, envies his husband for that.

His mother, though... this is a startling transformation, if ever he's seen one. Her hair is thinning and her face is worn, wearied. Her skin is paper-thin, looking delicate enough that he's sure the slightest bit of pressure would force a bruise to bloom. It's her eyes, though, that really get to him. As she turns to face him, he's met with a gaze so cold it's reminiscent of death itself. 

"Brian," she says, in that syrupy voice she always tries when she wants something, "How are you, darling?"

 _Darling._ It sets him on edge, hearing that word fall from her mouth. She makes it seem so easy, so natural, as though he's always been her darling son. As though they haven't spent an entire decade apart. As though they don't loathe each other.

Well, she might want to pretend, but he sure as shit can't be bothered. Meeting her gaze evenly, he asks, "What do you want?"

Something dangerous glitters in her eyes. He's pissed her off, clearly, and he feels rather proud for that. Brian watches as she suppresses her irritation - he's almost impressed. The warm expression she assumes is _almost_ convincing. Cloyingly, she queries, "Is that any way to speak to your mother?"

"I wouldn't know. I'm out of practice. It's been almost a decade, after all." He smiles at her, pleased to see some semblance of shame twisting across her features. "Don't feel bad though - I would have happily gone much longer without seeing you. Now, what exactly is it that you want from me?"

When she doesn't respond immediately, he starts guessing. "Money? Attention? Sympathy?"

He expects this will incite an argument, but she's clearly intent on remaining cool, calm, and collected. 

"I want to see you," she says, "That's all."

 _That's all._ Like it's so fucking simple. Like it's so natural and normal for her to be here right now. Trying to maintain composure, Brian heads for his desk chair and sinks into it, lounging, forcing himself to appear relaxed when he's really anything but. "You can't see me. I'm busy."

"So I see." His mother scans his office with some modicum of interest. "You've really built something for yourself here."

Clapping his hands, Brian exclaims exuberantly, "Oh, goody, you approve! Now I can rest easy. Thank you, mother, you've just made my day - no, my _year._ "

"That's enough," she snaps, her tone razor-sharp.

Inside of him lurks some childhood memory of how much that tone used to hurt. It would cut him deep, leaving wounds that bled endlessly. If he's being honest, it still hurts a little now. Brian isn't sure whether that's the memory of past pain or whether she's actually still capable of hurting him. He chooses to believe it's the former.

Her temper beginning to show, she scolds, "You know, I had no earthly idea you were living here. I had to hear it from Debbie Novotny. She's been avoiding me like the plague for years-"

"Can't imagine why," Brian drawls, drumming his fingers against his chair's plush armrests.

Ignoring him, his mother barrels on. "I finally get a chance to speak with her, and what does she tell me? That my son moved to New York. That he's  _married._ Brian, how could you?"

She sounds so deeply disappointed that he almost bursts out laughing. Brian resists the temptation and asks in a bored tone, "How could I what?"

"How could you keep this from me?"

He shrugs. "It hardly seemed newsworthy. You've made it clear what life you want for me, and as Debbie may have already told you, I couldn't be farther from it. She told you I married a  _man,_ right? That I have a  _husband?_ If you came here expecting to find me living some picket-fenced life with a wife and kids, well..."

He can see the colour draining from her face. Brian laughs, genuinely amused. "You're about to be disappointed."

He picks up the framed picture to his left and turns it to face her, then slams it down on the desk. His mother stares at it, her lips thinning into a cold, miserable line. Brian smiles cheerfully at her and explains, pointing demonstratively, "This is Justin. You met him once, remember? He was the guy in my loft, the one I'd been fucking when you showed up."

He's pleased when she stiffens; even more so when her lip curls. At this rate, she should be storming out in a huff in no time. 

Smugly, he continues, "We got married five years ago. And this is our son, Gus. Gus has two daddies and two mommies, and together we make one big, happy, faggy family."

His mother's corpse-like eyes flash with anger. "Five years?  _Five years?"_

"Five fucking wonderful years," Brian spits, glaring at her. "Not that it's any of your business."

"He's my son-in-law."

A rush of anger hits him. It's quickly joined by an all-encompassing sense of protectiveness - he can't let her anywhere near Justin. Not in theory, not in practice, not in this lifetime, not in the next. Seething, Brian yells, "He's nothing to you."

Outside his office door, everything stills momentarily. It picks back up, but not before Brian has become painfully conscious of his surroundings. He lowers his voice and adds, " _I'm_ nothing to you. So why don't you fuck off?"

"I'm your mother," she says, as though this is the be-all and end-all of everything. "You should have told me where you were living. You should have told me you were getting married. Now, this... this  _man_ is my son-in-law. I want to know him."

"You want to know him?" Brian sees her reaching for the photo frame and grabs it, stashing it in his desk drawer where it's far the fuck away from her. "Fuck you. You don't want to know him."

"I do," she protests, but it's bullshit. It's such bullshit. He knows all of her tells by now and it's so goddamned obvious she doesn't mean a word of what she's saying.

So what is all this about? It's bound to be self-serving - of that, Brian is sure. Perhaps Joan sees Justin as her last remaining option; Brian is guessing Claire has proven to be a dead-end in terms of supplying money, attention, or affection, so now his mother is on the hunt for someone else to indulge her. That's it. That's why she's here: to source what she needs from either him or Justin.

Well, to hell with her.  _  
_

Brian feels himself smiling at her, if you can even call it that. It's striking how empty it is, how empty all of this is. He wants her gone. He wants her out of here. He could call security, but that would cause a massive fucking scene and he can't afford to lose face like that. So he opts for the next best thing.

Meeting her gaze directly, he asks with a sneer, "What do you want to know? Do you want all the details of how happy our marriage is?"

She looks wary, but she nods. With a deceptively kind smile, she says, "I would love to hear about it."

"You'd love to hear about it," Brian echoes, laughing. "Wherever shall I begin? I know: let's start at the very beginning."

She nods encouragingly. He forces another empty smile her way and says, "We love fucking. It's one of our favourite pastimes."

"Brian," she warns, looking away uncomfortably. 

"You said you wanted to hear about him," Brian protests. "About us. That's the best place to begin - our love of fucking."

"Stop it," she snaps.

"What shall I cover next? How much he loves it when I fuck him?" Brian watches as she flinches and revels in it. Still, he can do better. "Or how much I love it when he fucks me?"

Her head snaps back towards him and she pins him with a horrified glare. Her voice rough, she commands, "Shut your mouth." _  
_

"You asked." He shrugs innocently. "What, were you expecting some sweet, sanitary tale of true love and fairy tale romance? Not. Going. To. Happen. We're fags, remember? Sinners? We deserve to be burning in hell, according to you."

She stands up abruptly, then hastens to collect her coat and bag. Brian remains lounging in his chair, unimpressed when she threatens, "This isn't over. I deserve a part in your life, no matter how questionable I might find it."

 _Questionable_. She spits the word out like it's poisonous, like _he's_ poisonous.

"Fuck off," he snarls. 

"Don't talk to me that way," she hisses, her dead eyes flashing with barely-contained animosity. "You always were a selfish ingrate. Why don't you think of someone other than yourself for a change?"

Brian snorts. "Like who?  _You?"_

"Like Justin. Doesn't he deserve a say in this?"

His blood boils lividly in his veins. "You want to give Justin a say? Go on. You go and find my fag husband and pour your non-existent heart out to him, and see where that gets you. I'd wager that you'll be fucking lucky if he doesn't spit in your face."

Brian grabs one of the brochures for the gallery and tosses it at her. "Go on, go and meet your son-in-law. Just give him a message from me, won't you? Tell him I can't wait for him to fuck my brains out tonight!"

 _That ought to do it_ , he thinks, as he watches her recoil with repulsion. 

"You're sick," she murmurs, her face stained red.

Brian stares her down until she finally scurries off, clutching the crucifix hanging from the chain around her neck. Once she's gone, he goes and closes the door, then locks it. Then he retreats to the private bathroom adjoining his office, takes one look at himself in the mirror, and throws up in the sink.

Life doesn't feel so good anymore.

*

The gallery space is finally coming together. Justin can see it taking shape; it's such a relief, really it is.

It's taken several tiresome weeks to figure it out with the curator: where everything should go, what should be included, what needs revising, what needs ditching. Today feels like the first real progress they've made since he agreed to this show. He looks around the space, impressed by the cohesiveness of the layout. Some changes may still need to be made, but at least it's not the spectacular mess it was yesterday.

He is about to text Brian to ask him to come by when Liza, one of the interns, comes to fetch him. "There's someone here to see you."

Justin tucks his phone in his pocket. "Who is it?"

"Your mother-in-law."

"Mother-in-law?" Justin echoes, bemused. "I don't have a... do you mean Deb?"

Liza snaps her gum and replies with a shrug, "No, she said her name was Joan."

His jaw almost hits the floor. "Do you mean  _Brian's mom?"_

"That's who your mother-in-law would be," Liza says slowly, peering at him. "That's kind of how it works..."

"And she said she was here for me?"

Clearly frustrated by the snail's pace at which this conversation is taking place, Liza huffs and explains tiredly, "She said her name was Joan Kinney and that she was here to see her son-in-law, Justin Taylor. It all checks out, don't you think?"

"I guess so," Justin says, frowning. 

Liza stares at him, her lips pursing. "Do you mind? I have work to do."

"Yeah, work for my show," he mutters, as she goes stomping off, both her massive ego and shitty fucking attitude on full display.

Justin makes his way out to the lobby slowly, still confused. What the fuck is Brian's mom doing here? Justin hasn't heard a word about her in  _years._ Even when Brian has mentioned her, it's only been fleeting, derogatory remarks; nothing substantial. Why would it be? Joan has been gone from Brian's life since the cancer incident, as it is famously known between the two of them, and Brian remains on lockdown about anything related to his biological family. 

He's still struggling to believe it when he sees her, standing underneath the archway leading into the first wing of the gallery. Joan Kinney - Brian's mom, and technically, his mother-in-law. Justin freezes up. She catches sight of him and smiles, which forces him to unfreeze and walk over to her. Joan touches his shoulder and says, "Hello, Justin. How are you?"

"Fine, thankyou," he says, feeling as though he's entered some parallel universe. "How are you, Mrs. Kinney?"

Her smile grows. "Please, do call me Joan."

"Okay. Joan." It feels all wrong, saying _Joan._ All of this feels all wrong. Conflicted, Justin asks again, "How are you?"

"I'm well. I've just come from Kinnetik - Brian sent me here to see you."

Yep, this is definitely a parallel universe. This can't be his usual reality. Justin is about to ask her what on Earth she's talking about when Joan takes him by the arm and says, "You must forgive me. My son has never been the best at sharing... I simply had no idea that you two were married."

She continues on in this way, apologising for Brian's failings, insisting she's  _so thrilled_ to meet the newest member of the Kinney family. Justin wades through all of it; it feels as though he's moving through quicksand. It's so fucking bizarre. Where is this coming from? What the hell is he supposed to do? He feels all wrong being nice to her, but she's being so lovely to him. She's smiling and complimenting him, touching his arm in a way that seems so familiar and caring. Has she changed? Has she experienced some milestone awakening? Is she, perhaps, trying to make amends with Brian after all these years?

Still smiling at him sweetly, Joan urges, "Well, dear, you really must show me around. I'd love to see your work. An artist in the family! How marvellous."

There's an ugly feeling in his gut that suggests that none of this is even remotely in the vicinity of 'marvellous'. But he can't just reject her, can he? He can't very well kick her out into the street. If nothing else, then he'd be left wondering what the fuck this is all about. So Justin nods and says, "Follow me."

*

The taste of vomit stays with him for hours afterwards. Brian loses count of how many times he brushes his teeth and rinses his mouth. He sucks down mint after mint after mint, but the bitter taste won't budge from the back of his throat. 

Every time he thinks about his mother, he wants to throw up all over again. Cynthia notices, of course, and insists he leave early. He doesn't have it in him to argue with her, so he slinks out of Kinnetik, wearied and nauseous. 

Once he's home, he sprawls out on the couch and stares at the ceiling. He stares for long enough that his eyes begin to burn. He would close them, but every time he does, he's hit with intrusive memories. He can't have that. He can't go back to that.

New York was a blessing for so many reasons. It reunited him with Justin, it pushed him to work harder, it drove him to build Kinnetik into something bigger and better than he'd ever imagined it could be. Perhaps most significantly, it proved to be a refuge. It saved him from so many things. He doesn't have to think about his fucked up family here. There aren't toxic memories lurking around every corner. There's not a single trace of them to be found. So, over the years, Brian has allowed himself to forget. He's pushed them to the back of his mind and imprisoned them there, where he can't reach them and they can't reach him. 

Well, that's all gone up in fucking flames, hasn't it? Now his mother is here, in New York, well within reach, with her claws ready to sink into him and Justin.  _Justin._ Brian is past the point of caring what his mother thinks of him, says to him, does to him, but Justin? He can't stand the thought of her having anything to do with his husband. Maybe that's what's keeping that sticky tang of bile at the back of his throat - the idea of Joan Kinney sinking her monstrous claws into Sunshine.

Fuck that. Fuck all of this. He's going to put a stop to it, right fucking now. His gut twists as he's forced to do the unthinkable - call his sister. Ugh. He finds her number easily, dials it with angry stabs of his fingers, and glares at the ceiling as he waits for her to pick up.

"Hello?"

He grimaces at the sound of her voice. No point wasting time or energy with pleasantries; Brian gets right to the point and barks, "What is she doing here?"

"Brian?" Claire sighs sharply. It sounds as though she's been expecting his call, probably dreading it, and is now miserable that the hour is finally upon her. "Is that really all you have to say to me?"

"Yes," he snaps. "Either answer me, or don't. What's it going to be?"

Claire is silent for a while. He waits. Eventually, she says quietly, "She's impossible. I can't deal with her anymore. She's always here, always on top of us and under our feet... the kids hate her. She pretends to like them, but only if it's on her terms. She hates me. She never says it, but she does. She only wants us around to serve her."

"Serve her," Brian echoes, thinking that this a perfect description of his mother's expectations for her children. 

"You know, drive her places, clean her house, cover her living costs... it's exhausting, Bri."

 _Bri._ How fucking sweet. It's almost as though Claire is feeling sisterly towards him. It's on the tip of his tongue to ask her why she's being so nice to someone she once believed to be a child molester, when she sighs, "Just help her, will you?"

"How?"

"Cut her a cheque. Buy her flowers. Take her to dinner. Let her stay with you for a while."

"You have got to be fucking kidding-" hearing the front door creak open, he abruptly cuts himself off. Justin is home. Brian sits up and watches as he comes through the door, then says quickly to Claire, "Not a fucking chance in hell. Bye, sis."

He hangs up and is about to turn his phone off, when a thought occurs to him: if Claire has caller ID, she'll have his number, which means his mother will have it imminently. Claire's a backstabbing bitch - she'll hand over his number without a second thought. So, before switching it off, he texts Cynthia: _I need a new phone number. Can you sort that out?_ _In the meantime, if you need to contact me, call Justin._

It occurs to Brian that Justin hasn't said a word yet. He's unwinding his scarf and unbuttoning his coat, frowning distantly. Brian stands up and goes to give him a hug. "Hey."

"Hey," Justin murmurs, latching on to Brian. "I've had the weirdest day."

"Mmm?" Brian nuzzles into him, breathing in Justin's scent, getting drunk off his husband's closeness.

"Your mother came by the gallery."

Shock hits him like a sledgehammer. What the  _fuck?_

"She said you sent her," Justin continues, pulling back to stare at Brian in confusion. "Did you send her?"

"Technically, yes." Brian shakes his head, trying to clear it of the muddled thoughts rattling around in it. When he threw that brochure at her, he figured she'd crumple it up and throw it in the trash on her way out of Kinnetik. Or, maybe, she'd take it to the nearest church and use it as some sort of prayer totem whilst begging the Lord for mercy for their sinning souls. He didn't think she'd actually fucking go there! Still stunned, he asks blankly, "What happened?"

"Um," Justin frowns and grabs the front of Brian's shirt, leading him into the kitchen. Brian sits down and waits as Justin pours them a couple of drinks. After downing half of his glass, Justin says, "She said you sent her, that she had just heard about our marriage, and that she was sorry she didn't get to meet me sooner. She asked for me to show her around the gallery."

"And?"

Justin shrugs, looking slightly shell-shocked. "And she liked it."

Brian's stomach drops, hard. "She what?"

"She liked my work," Justin says, fiddling with the label on the bottle of gin. "I showed her about half and then got the fuck out of dodge. It felt really strange, really... wrong. Why did you send her there? What's going on?"

Fuck those questions: Brian sees a more pressing matter that needs dealing with. "You showed her 'about half'?"

He can see realisation dawning on Justin's face. Good, so he's wising up to the fact that he's seriously fucked up - that's something. With trepidation, Justin admits, "Yes."

Brian snaps. Something inside him recoils, then separates in one clean, brutal motion, leaving rage seeping through him.

"What the fuck were you thinking?" He doesn't give Justin the chance to respond, he just yells, "You  _showed her around the gallery?!_ Why the fuck would you do that?"

He sees hurt blossoming in Justin's eyes, but it delivers none of the guilt Brian is accustomed to feeling in such instances. He's too fucking angry. He's so fucking angry, he can hardly breathe. 

"She was being nice," Justin protests helplessly. "She said you sent her, that she wanted to get to know me... she seemed different than I remember."

"This is what she does!" Brian shouts, glaring at Justin, _hating_ Justin. "She puts on her pretty little act and convinces people she's simply wonderful, instead of the toxic bitch she actually is. And you fucking fell for it!"

Justin's face falls. Brian is too far gone to care. He grabs his drink, downs it in one go, spits  _fuck you_ at his traitor of a husband, and storms off into the bedroom.

*

"Fuck you," Brian spits, looking at Justin with utter disgust. Wounded, Justin cringes. He watches in horror as Brian storms out of the kitchen and listens to the heavy footfalls as he goes into the bedroom. The brutal slam of the door leaves all the windowpanes shuddering. 

Justin is at a loss - he knew something was amiss, he  _knew_ it, but that's why he made some excuse and left Joan as soon as he could. He shut it down, didn't he? He got the hell out of dodge, right? Isn't that deserving of some recognition?

Bewildered, he follows Brian. The bedroom door is a bitch to open - Brian's violent treatment of it has left the knob loose and difficult to maneuver. Once he's figured it out, Justin enters the room and finds it empty. The bathroom door is closed and he can hear the shower running. Good, that might help - a nice hot shower often helps to calm Brian down. Maybe it would help all the more if Justin joined in. Keen to test that theory, he goes and twists the knob. It catches. It's locked. The bathroom door is  _locked._

They  _never_ lock doors. Justin can't remember a single instant of them ever having locked each other out. The only time they ever use the locks on the bedroom and bathroom doors is when Gus is around, to ensure he stays out and doesn't see anything he oughtn't. At first, Justin refuses to believe the door is actually locked - maybe it's just sticking. So he tries again, and again, but no amount of rattling the doorknob works. Brian has locked him out.

Brian has  _locked him out._ Justin's stomach sinks. He sits down on the edge of the bed and stares at the door, willing it to open. He listens as the shower turns off, as cabinet doors open and slam shut, and feels sick with anticipation. He doesn't know what to expect next, which is most unusual. Justin normally has an excellent read on Brian and can at least hypothesise about what's coming around the corner. Right now, he has absolutely no idea.

At long last, the door unlocks and Brian steps out. He's dressed, which isn't a good sign. His reaction to Justin is an even worse sign; he takes one look and his eyes narrow. Nastily, he demands, "What do you want?"

"I want to talk," Justin says, standing up with the intention of approaching Brian. Immediately, it's evident that this is not an option. Brian is glowering at him, looking angrier than Justin has ever seen. 

"You want to talk?" Brian sneers. "Go and talk to my mother, since the two of you are so fucking close."

"We're not close! I don't want to talk to her. Brian, I swear, I knew it was wrong! I was just... I was in shock. She showed up, she seemed perfectly lovely-"

"I don't need another recap," Brian snaps. "Now get the fuck out."

A lump starts to form in Justin's throat. "Excuse me?"

"Get. The. Fuck. Out." Brian lunges at the bedroom door and wrenches it wide open. "I don't want you in here tonight."

This is utterly unprecedented - they've been known to sleep in separate quarters after arguments, sure, but it's always been voluntary. Neither one of them has ever tried forcing the other out. He doesn't know what to say to this, to any of this.

As he's trying to figure out how to respond, Brian marches over and grabs his arm, then leads him towards the door. "Are you even listening to me? Have you ever fucking listened?  _Get. Out."_

They're almost halfway down the hall when Justin finally struggles free from the confines of shock. He pushes Brian off him and yells, "Stop it!" 

Brian steps back, folds his arms over his chest, and looks at Justin like he's pure filth. Distraught, Justin protests, "What did you just say to me?  _Have I ever fucking listened?_ What is that supposed to imply - that I should have known what to do today?"

"Yes," Brian seethes. "You should have known better."

"I was in shock," Justin protests, on the verge of tears. "She shows up, asking for me, she seems perfectly pleasant and she tells me  _you_ sent her! What was I supposed to think?"

"She's a fucking liar! She's a manipulative cunt." Even more emphatically, and truly patronisingly, Brian repeats, _"You should have known better."_

"How could I?!"

"Use your fucking head!"

Justin almost bursts into tears at the sound of Brian's livid screaming. He struggles to hold himself together, struggles to find the right thing to say... it's near impossible, with this lump in his throat, with Brian glaring at him hatefully, with his heart splintering inside his chest.

Then he looks down at his wedding ring and thinks to himself:  _I've always been good at impossible things._ Justin forcibly pulls himself back together and starts to talk.

"You never talk about it. How long has it been that we've known each other now? Sixteen years?" Justin takes a deep breath, struggling to stay composed. He hears his breath sawing in and out raggedly, strained from the effort he's driving into holding himself together. "You've mentioned your parents maybe a handful of times, and even then, it's only when your hand has been forced. Sometimes I wonder... if your father hadn't died, if your mom hadn't shown up at the loft that time, if you hadn't gone through that shit with your nephew... would I have heard anything at all?"

Brian blinks, the fury in his expression fading momentarily. Bolstered slightly, Justin continues, "How can you expect me to know how to handle something like that? I did the best I could. I got the feeling it wasn't right, I got out of there as soon as I could."

At this, Brian scoffs and shakes his head, averting his hideously angry gaze. Justin swallows. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry if I let you down."

"If?" Brian laughs bitterly _. "If?"_

"Okay, so I did," Justin concedes, his voice shaking. "I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. I'm not excusing what happened. I can see it hurt you, and I'm really sorry for that. But I deserve a chance to explain myself. I didn't mean to hurt you or betray you... I fucked up, that's all, and a big part of  _why_ I fucked up is that this part of your life remains a mystery to me. It doesn't have to be that way, you know."

He takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself somewhat. Brian meets his gaze and asks icily, "Are you done?"

Even though he doesn't feel like he is, Justin decides to relent and give Brian some space to respond. "Yeah."

"Good. Don't fucking follow me," Brian warns in a harsh growl, as he storms back towards the bedroom. So apparently there won't be a response. Apparently, Brian wants nothing to do with him. Justin pinches the bridge of his nose as frustration mounts heatedly inside of him. Clearly, his speech didn't accomplish shit. Clearly, this is a fuck of a lot more complicated than that. 

Justin flinches as the bedroom door slams loudly. He waits for it to lock, but that never happens. Well, that's a good as invitation as any. He walks on jellied legs to reopen the door and steps inside.

Brian is sitting on the end of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, head hung low. The sight of it pains Justin. Even though his temper and wounded feelings are demanding to be indulged, he knows that yelling would be a mistake right now. So, very calmly, he protests, "You can't kick me out. This is my bedroom too. This is our home."

"Which I bought and paid for," Brian remarks sullenly, not even bothering to look at Justin.

"Great," Justin mutters, feeling a headache blooming behind his eyes. "Great, rub that in my face. Anything else you want to say?"

"Yeah, get the fuck out."

What is he supposed to say to that? He doesn't feel right leaving Brian alone at a time like this. He doesn't want to admit defeat. He doesn't want to go and sleep in the guestroom and spend the night alone. He doesn't want them turning into one of those couples, with separate bedrooms, destined for separation or worse. The mere thought sends Justin into a panic. 

As he struggles to come up with something to say, Brian turns and glares at him. In a blatant attempt to force more distance between them, Brian snarls, "Or do you want me to leave? Maybe I'll go out. Maybe I'll find someone else to fuck tonight."

The threat sends his heart sinking. Pained, Justin says softly, "That is an incredibly fucked up thing to say."

Brian turns away, casting his cold gaze out the window. "I could say worse."

It takes a moment for Justin to realise that this doesn't sound like a threat; it sounds like an admission. But exactly what is Brian admitting to? That he has the capacity for greater cruelty? Or that he's heard worse himself, and this ugly threat of infidelity is just scraping the surface of what could be said by two people in this situation?

Sensing the potential for progress, Justin sits down on the bed. He decides to keep his distance and carefully leaves a decent amount of space between them. Then he looks around the room, at the home they've created together over the years: at the family photos resting on the mantle, at the basket of clean laundry he brought home yesterday, at the stacks of his sketchbooks filling the bookshelves. There's a couple lying open on Brian's nightstand. Justin tears up, recalling all the nights he's come home to find Brian poring through the books, admiring his work. Like last night, which now stands in stark contrast to tonight. Last night, he came home and found Brian in bed, flicking through the sketchbook he started shortly after they got married. In no time, he was straddling Brian, kissing him, undressing him. They spent hours making love. How have they drifted so far away from that, from each other in the space of a day? Justin feels stranded.

He searches for the right words, desperate for ones that will reconnect them. With Brian sitting next to him so stonily, he's not even sure such words exist. He swallows, fighting tears, and tries his best: "You know every part of me, everything about me. I love that feeling... knowing that you know me inside and out. It makes me feel..."

How does it make him feel? Is there even a way to put it into words? More importantly, does Brian even care? He's not looking at Justin, not reacting to any of this... it's like talking into a void. Justin compares it to last night and the things they said to each other then. As he returns himself to that moment, he finds a word that might just fit.

"I feel safe," he says, and it sounds good enough. Still fighting the lump in his throat, he continues with painstaking effort, "It... I don't know, it just makes me feel good, it makes me feel fulfilled... knowing I'm completely yours."

"I am yours," Brian snarls, the words sour and snapping like a whip.

"I know that," Justin says quickly. "I only mean that I... there are obviously things about you I don't know, while you know every last thing about me. I wish it went both ways. I wish you wanted it to."

With obvious mocking, Brian retorts, "I thought you said you wouldn't change a thing about us."

Justin can't help it any longer - it hurts, hearing Brian rebuff him so effortlessly. With tears sliding down his face, he replies shakily, "I wouldn't. So I'm not going to force you to talk about this, I'm not going to... I'm _not_. I just want you to know how I feel."

Brian shrugs, as though it's totally unimportant to him. The casual callousness of it sinks into Justin's gut like a knife. Then Brian twists it by saying, "Are you finished?"

No, he's not. He's not finished. But he also has no idea how to forge forward from here. He knows Brian doesn't want him to. So Justin nods and chokes out, "Yeah."

It takes an extraordinary amount of willpower to pick himself up off the bed. Brian still doesn't move a muscle. Justin touches his shoulder lightly, and murmurs, "I don't want to crowd you. I don't like that you tried to kick me out of here tonight, but I'm not going to force you to be in my company if you need space. I'll be in the guestroom."

"Good," is all the response he gets.

Justin inhales carefully, wincing at the jagged sound of it. He leans in close to Brian and kisses his shoulder, then his neck, then his cheek. "I love you."

It takes even more effort to force himself to leave the room. He doesn't want to go. He doesn't want to leave Brian sitting there, head hung low, closed off to the world and looking all the more miserable for it. But who is he really going to be helping if he stays? Now isn't the time to be self-serving; it will only do them more damage. Justin turns back once, hoping Brian will say something, _anything..._ but there's nothing but silence. 

*

He leaves the guestroom door ajar. He can't bear to close it. Justin lies down on the bed and stares at the ceiling, unable to sleep, obsessed with thoughts of what Brian's doing, feeling, thinking. 

He knows so little about the rest of the Kinney family. He knows that Jack was a drunk, and a cruel one at that. He knows that Claire is a bitch and that her kids are nasty little brats. He knows that Joan isn't any sort of a mother to Brian. He knows that they're all fag-fearing Jesus freaks. That's about it - everything else is shrouded in Brian's trademark brand of stubborn secrecy.

Justin thinks of what he  _does_ know about Joan and cringes. He remembers that day at the loft, the way she reacted in horror to his presence. Worse still, he remembers Brian telling him what she'd said to him about the cancer. Why didn't he think of that when she was standing in front of him? He's hated this woman with a passion for years for the way she's treated Brian - where was that today? How could it leave him at the worst possible moment?

Several guilt-ridden, miserable hours pass. They feel like months for how slowly they crawl by. With each one that passes, Justin feels more and more defeated. He hates lying here all alone, isolated from his husband. He resents Brian for not giving him more to work with: if only he knew the full story, maybe Justin would have known how to react today. Most of all, he loathes himself for causing Brian pain, for letting him down, for betraying him. He didn't mean to. He really didn't. But that doesn't count for shit, does it? The point is that he did and now they're in this terrible place because of it.

It's just shy of 1am when a shadow casts over the doorway. Justin freezes at first - should he sit up? Get out of bed? Say something? Conflicted, he stays put and waits. As the floorboards creak, signalling Brian's approach, Justin grabs the covers and pulls them away, inviting Brian in.

The relief he feels when Brian accepts this invitation is downright euphoric. Brian slides into bed, sidles up to Justin, and whispers, "I love you, too."

The sour scent of liquor lingers all over the words. Justin's gut twists with concern, but he doesn't indulge it. He turns onto his side to face Brian and reaches for the covers again, arranging them snugly around the two of them. Brian is watching him with an uneven gaze; it's clouded, but underneath the haze left by the booze is something sharp. It bores into Justin, in the best of ways. It feels like Brian is seeking him out, reaching into him, searching him for something. For what, he's not sure. Justin cups his husband's cheek in his palm, stroking his thumb over the curve of his cheekbone. Brian closes his eyes and exhales, his exhaustion palpable. Justin kisses him gently, soothingly (at least, he hopes), and then wraps his arms around Brian, holding him as close as possible.

**TBC**


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to say a big thank you for all the encouraging feedback I received for the first part - I really appreciate it! I hope you enjoy the second part and, as always, would love to hear your thoughts :)

As soon as Justin leaves the bedroom, Brian's seething anger evaporates and is replaced with one singular, screaming thought:  ** _what the fuck is wrong with you?_**

Okay, so Justin fucked up. Justin fucked up big, actually, which is why Brian is still sitting here and not running after him down the hall. It's not that Brian actually expected Justin to spit in his mother's face, but he expected something in that vein. Maybe kicking her the fuck out of the gallery and not  _showing her around._ Jesus. The mere thought of it sets Brian's teeth on edge. 

Yeah, Justin fucked up. But knowing that doesn't stop that singular, screaming thought from revolving around and around and  _around_ in his head _(what the fuck is wrong with you, what the fuck is wrong with you, what the fuck is wrong with you)_. In an attempt to dull it, he self-medicates with a bottle of whiskey. In between desperately greedy gulps, he swirls the bottle around in the palm of his hand, watching the amber liquid swish from side to side. Even as it diminishes drastically, the thought won't stop chanting inside his head. Time to up the dosage; Brian goes to the liquor cabinet in search of something stronger. 

This soon proves to be a mistake, because suddenly his last birthday present from Justin is staring him right in the face. He picks up the bottle of 45-year-old whiskey and runs his fingers over the smooth glass exterior. It's still mostly full, minus the two glasses they shared in bed on the night of his forty-fifth birthday. That was a fucking great night. All of his birthdays since his fortieth have been fucking great - no, fucking magnificent. He has Justin to thank for that.

He has Justin to thank for this bottle of vintage whiskey, which was probably absurdly expensive. He has Justin to thank for the family photos arranged on the mantle; Brian rarely remembers to take photos, and is even less likely to print and frame them. He has Justin to thank for the life that's been breathed into their home. Okay, yes, he bought and paid for it, but Justin was the one to transform it from 'house' to 'home'. 

He has Justin to thank for a lot of things. It's impossible to keep count, really, after all this time. Sixteen years, to be exact. Sixteen years of knowing each other, ten years of living in New York, and five years of marriage. The screaming inside his head turns deafening. Brian pours himself a very tall glass of 45-year-old whiskey and pools onto the floor, propping himself up against the bookshelf. What the fuck  _is_  wrong with him? Sipping slowly, he tries to arrive at an answer.

It's not easy; there is still anger thrumming its way through him, and the acrid taste of bile is still thick at the back of his throat. He thinks back to his confrontation with his mother and creates an exhaustive list of every fucked up thing about it. There were all the ugly things she said, like calling him sick, and then there were so many things she didn't say. She didn't have to. She made her loathing and repulsion perfectly evident in different ways: in the tensing of her shoulders, in the bitter curl of her lip, in the vicious flashing of her eyes. If only Justin could have seen  _that_ Joan Kinney. Maybe, if he had, he would understand. 

That's the worst part: feeling as though Justin doesn't understand. It has come as a huge shock because Brian has believed for years now that Justin has an encyclopaedic knowledge where he is concerned. That's how it has always seemed. In fact, Brian has amassed an overflowing mental catalogue of instances where Justin has proven his encyclopaedic knowledge. 

Like, for instance, the grey hair debacle (as Justin has so tauntingly termed it). Two weeks ago, Brian noticed the first grey hair sprouting out of his head and instantly went into meltdown mode. During his fifth consecutive day of sulking, Brian arrived home and found something waiting for him on the coffee table: a cover for a special edition of  _Rage,_ in which Rage assumes a new alter ego - the all-powerful, much-desired Silver Fox, who soon proves to be the apple of JT's eye. Screaming from the cover in glossy silver lettering was the message:  _meet Silver Fox, the sexiest hero Gayopolis has ever seen!_

Brian currently has the cover stashed in one of his desk drawers at work. It also pops up in his email intermittently, sent by Justin, with messages like:  _You're not queening out about that gorgeous grey hair, are you? You'd better not be!_

It never fails to bring a smile to his face. Justin has been the solid ground under his feet for years; Brian can always rely on him for reassurance. Today is the one exception, where Justin has left him feeling anything but reassured. Betrayed, yes. Furious, definitely. Anxious, absolutely. Reassured? That's nowhere to be found - not even in the glass of whiskey he's draining.

As he hits the bottom of the glass, the singular scream stops. Taking its place is Justin's desperate plea:  _How can you expect me to know how to handle something like that?_

Brian imagines that Justin's encyclopaedia of All Things Brian Kinney is missing a few pages, right in the middle, in the K section. There are probably huge chunks that have been redacted or, simply, left blank; namely Kinney, Claire and Kinney, Jack, and Kinney, Joan. Justin has been left with a very narrow understanding of this part of Brian's life. The more Brian thinks about it, the narrower it seems. Suddenly, he's hit with an onslaught of intrusive memories, slamming into him. As they brutalise him, he realises:  _Justin knows none of this._

And so returns the singular, screaming thought:  _What the fuck is wrong with you?_

Justin's way of handling the situation with his mother was hardly stellar, but what can be said about how he treated Justin? He forces himself to relive their fight, play-by-play: he screamed in his face, forcibly removed him from their bedroom, threatened to cheat, iced him out and flat out refused to return his 'I love you'. He's taken the solid ground underneath his feet and stomped all over it. Brian makes himself suffer through multiple replays of the fight until he's hurting as much as Justin must be. A new chant starts up, one that's terribly familiar:  _not good enough, not good enough, not good enough._

He wants to cry but refuses to succumb to the urge. That would make this real. That would mean admitting how bad of a situation they're in. He hasn't cried since Justin's overdose. He remembers hunching over Justin, face pressed into his chest, feeling the beat of his heart and crying until everything was raw. He remembers Justin's hands sliding through his hair, soothing him. He remembers Justin holding him and reassuring him, bringing him back from despair.

Where is Justin now? Banished to the fucking guest bedroom, that's where. Brian refills his glass and lets the liquor slide down his throat, smooth and rich, with just the right amount of bite to it. His vision starts to swim. He desperately wanted to be alone earlier, but now he can't quite recall why. Justin's presence grated at him before, but now his absence is chewing away at Brian, devouring him rabidly from the inside out. 

Alongside the revolving chant of  _not good enough, not good enough, not good enough_ is the echo of Justin's  _I love you._ Brian can't stand that he let it go unreciprocated. He hasn't done that in years. It feels unnatural, leaving it left unsaid, leaving Justin waiting. Eventually, the guilt proves to be too much. He goes to find Justin, finds him lying awake, curls up with him and whispers, "I love you, too."

The voices in his head begin to fade. Then, as Justin gathers Brian in an ardent embrace, they vanish entirely. The chanting has ceased to be... at least, for now. There's so much more to be said, but he's exhausted. Even if he weren't, he doesn't know how to put it into words yet. So Brian settles into Justin's embrace and allows himself to drift off to sleep.

*

The next morning, Brian wakes to the scent of fresh coffee brewing and something delicious cooking. It returns a smile to his face - a proper smile, no less - and inspires him to drag himself out of bed immediately. There is a lingering temptation to remain lying there, hidden away from the world, but he ignores it and heads into the kitchen. 

Breakfast is ready and the coffee is being poured. It proves most comforting. Most comforting of all, though, is seeing Justin standing at the kitchen counter, stirring spoonfuls of sugar into Brian's favourite coffee mug. It all feels so wonderfully familiar. Brian gravitates towards Justin and hugs him from behind, pouring what little physical and emotional energy he has into the embrace.

"Hey," he murmurs.

"Morning," Justin says softly, squeezing his hand around Brian's wrist. "Coffee's ready. Do you want juice?"

"Yeah." Brian leans against the counter, watching as Justin fills two glasses with grapefruit juice. The kitchen island is covered with a spread of food: pancakes, eggs, bacon, toast, fruit... Brian starts to salivate at the sight. "Are you trying to fatten me up, Sunshine?"

Justin beams at him, sets the glasses of juice down, and throws his arms around Brian's neck. "I'm trying to  _fuel_ you up. We're going to be working hard to burn all of this off later, I promise."

"Sounds good." Brian kisses him soundly, infusing it with as much affection as possible. In truth, he's not sure how it sounds. It certainly doesn't spark his interest like it normally would. But he's not ready to investigate that, so he throws himself full-force into the kiss, pleased as Justin moans happily, his arms tightening around Brian needily.

When, at last, they break for breath, Justin nuzzles his nose against Brian's and whispers, "I'm really sorry. I shouldn't have trusted her, I should have told her to fuck off. I may not know everything about your family, but I know enough that I ought to have responded differently. I'm really, really,  _really_  sorry."

"I'm sorry too," Brian replies, immediately feeling unburdened. As Justin kisses his neck eagerly, Brian slides his hands into his husband's soft blonde hair and breathes in the familiar scent.

Pausing with his lips grazing the hollow of Brian's throat, Justin asks apprehensively, "Are we okay?"

Fuck, of course they are. They have to be. Kissing Justin's forehead, Brian murmurs, "Yeah." 

"I don't know what I'd do if we weren't," Justin admits, laughing uneasily. "Come on, come sit down."

*

As Brian wolfs down his breakfast, Justin picks at his. They're not in the awful place they were last night, that's for sure, but they're hardly back to where they should be. It feels like they're dangling in limbo. He tries making another pervy joke about how much time they'll need to spend fucking to burn off a breakfast this big, but it doesn't deliver the results he had hoped. Brian smiles at him, somewhat weakly, and then returns to his breakfast without even trying to flirt back. Justin has no idea what to do with that. Filled with unease, he stares at his plate, wishing he could go back in time and un-fuck-up everything he fucked up.

He's relieved when his phone rings, providing a much-needed distraction. It's Cynthia. Justin picks it up and doesn't even get to properly say 'hello' - she immediately insists, her voice thin and tired, "Justin, baby, put Brian on, will you?"

He doesn't ask if she's okay; he senses she wouldn't be receptive to such a query, and besides, the answer is pretty goddamned obvious. Justin passes the phone to Brian and says, "Cynthia wants to talk to you."

Brian stares at the phone, his gaze darkening, then reluctantly grabs it. "Cyn?"

Justin pushes his pancakes around the plate, hoping he's not being too obvious as he listens to one half of their conversation. Brian grows tenser and tenser throughout all of it. "She's there again? Well, tell her I'm not coming in... no, I can't. You and Louise can cover for me... I don't know...  _I don't know."_

Then he curses softly and puts his head in his hands. " _Three weeks?_ Is that a joke? Okay, then get me three weeks... no, I'm not kidding! Get a pen and paper and read out the deadlines and presentations... you and Felix. You and Jasper. Reschedule that one, tell them I'm on urgent personal leave and they're first in line when I return. Jasper and Louise. Louise and Felix. Fuck, that one's important - call Malcolm in from Pittsburgh and put him and Felix on it... yes, I'm fucking sure!"

When he hangs up the phone, he looks about ready to throw it across the room. Justin takes it from him gently and sets it well out of harm's way. "What did she have to say?"

"My mother," Brian says, grimacing, "Is going to be in town for three fucking weeks. Kill me now."

"I'd rather not," Justin jests. "I quite prefer you alive and well."

Brian stares at his plate, pushing his breakfast around idly. Okay, so he's ticking the box for 'alive', but 'well'? Not so much. Justin abandons his own seat and goes to Brian, sliding into his lap and kissing his cheek. "Why don't we go away somewhere?"

Brian looks at him with sullen intrigue. Justin presses more feather-soft kisses all over his cheek and says, "Three weeks could make for a nice vacation. We could go away, just the two of us... it would be nice, don't you think? You won't have to worry about running into her."

The word 'worry' clearly offends Brian; he sighs irritably and rolls his eyes. Justin smooths his hair back. "I'm just saying - New York is surprisingly small at times. Remember when Gus and I ran into Ian?"

Brian snickers. "You mean Stranger Danger Ian?" 

"The one and only," Justin laughs. "My point is, this city has a remarkable talent for spitting up the last person you want to see at the worst possible moment. Let's avoid that by getting the fuck out of here."

He's relieved to see a warm smile spreading over Brian's face. Hugging him close, Brian says, "I'd love that."

"So where do you want to go?"

Brian shakes his head. "Where do  _you_ want to go? You choose, Sunshine."

Justin thinks for a moment, considering all the places they could escape to. Which would prove most helpful right now? Somewhere familiar, preferably. Somewhere they both know and love. Nowhere too far, like Italy, or too wild, like Ibiza. They just need somewhere that's far away enough to offer refuge, and which might provide a change of pace without being overwhelming. Finally, he suggests, "What about San Francisco? We haven't been back since our honeymoon. It'd be nice to spend more time there together."

"Honeymoon 2.0," Brian drawls, smirking. "Sounds nice."

"Yeah. It will be. You deal with the hotel, I'll figure out the flights?"

Brian nods and Justin jumps out of his lap. He's about to go and grab his laptop, but Brian still has a hold of his hand. He turns to face him and is met with a sad smile gracing Brian's face. He doesn't know what to make of it. It's a little lonely, and laced with regret.

He remembers, while working on his collection of portraits exploring evolving queer identities, talking to a girl who had run away from home at the age of fifteen because her parents were hideously violent. Thirteen years later, the memory of that time was still written all over her in the form of scars - scraping up her arms, rippling across her back, so many twisted strips of whitened, gnarled skin. Running her index finger along one particularly harsh scar running from her wrist to her elbow, she admitted, "They were nice, sometimes. But it never lasted. And you never knew what to expect. You never knew when the love was going to go away, or if it would ever come back."

Then, a sob swelling, she cried, "I still have trouble believing when someone loves me that it's going to last. I still expect it to vanish at a moment's notice."

Brian isn't covered with scars - at least, not any that stripe across his flesh. Justin suspects they're buried much deeper, hidden beneath the surface. He also suspects that Brian might also have experienced that same fleeting 'love' with his parents. Perhaps he still struggles to believe the love in his life will last. So, before he leaves the kitchen, Justin wraps Brian up in his arms and says firmly, "I love you."

This time, he's not left waiting in isolation for hours on end. Brian buries his face against Justin's shoulder, kisses it, and replies urgently, "I love you, too."

*

San Francisco is dulled by bleak weather when they arrive. The drive to the hotel is strained by an uneasy silence that worms its way under Brian's skin. They didn't fuck back at the apartment, nor on the flight, and if he's being honest with himself, he doesn't really feel like fucking when they get to their hotel room. He has no goddamned idea why - sex has always been his salvation, his source of solace, and yet Brian can't bring himself to want it right now. He doesn't know himself like this. He can tell Justin is similarly perplexed.

Perplexion turns to hurt when they reach the hotel. Brian sees it flashing in Justin's eyes when he says no to showering together. He watches as Justin retreats into the bathroom alone, sensing every bit of his husband's confusion and loneliness. Brian sits down on the bed, feeling like shit and hating himself. The guilt continues to tear into him until Justin emerges from the bathroom, smiling brightly and suggesting that he give Brian a massage.

As soon as the word 'massage' bounds enthusiastically from Justin's mouth, Brian finds himself nodding. There's tension filling him from head to toe, like concrete set in his very veins. He strips, laughs at Justin's lurid comments, and lies face-down on the bed. As Justin straddles his thighs, Brian can't help but sigh contentedly - Justin is all warm from the shower, and it feels so fucking good to have his husband's soft, flushed body pressed against his.

Justin commences massaging Brian masterfully. As he elicits moans and groans from Brian, he laughs, clearly delighted. Brian starts to feel slightly less wretched. Stretching out indulgently under Justin, Brian wonders aloud,  _"How_ did you get so good at this?"

"It's been almost two decades," Justin laughs, the heels of his hands working Brian's lower back with delicious intensity. "I know your body by heart. I ought to have a masters degree, really."

"You normally have to write a dissertation," Brian mumbles into the pillow, groaning loudly as Justin's hands hit just the right spot.

"Hmm," Justin murmurs. "Maybe I could submit a series of paintings. I've only done, like, fifty thousand of you."

Arching his shoulders to encourage Justin to move his hands upwards, Brian teases, "I'm starting to think you're obsessed with me, Sunshine."

"I'm your stalker, remember?" Justin muffles his own laughter by kissing the nape of Brian's neck, then biting down on his shoulder.

"I married my stalker," Brian chuckles. "Isn't that a Lifetime movie?"

"I don't think they make Lifetime movies about fags. Pity, that."

As Justin's touch further intensifies, Brian lets himself sink into it, until he's so relaxed he's lingering somewhere between wake and sleep. Normally massages lead to fucking, but they're still not there yet. Or, rather, Brian isn't. He can sense Justin's longing but can't bring himself to return it. Why? What the fuck is wrong with him?

As Justin winds down, bringing the massage to an end, Brian searches desperately for the right thing to say. He can count on one hand the number of times he's turned down Justin for sex. Normally, it's not a big deal, but tonight it will be. They both know things aren't right yet; rejecting Justin's advances would be like a big, fat, red rubber-stamp confirming how fucked up things are.

Fortunately, Justin is as perceptive and generous as ever. Rather than trying to turn the massage into something more, he kisses Brian's shoulder and offers, "Want to order room service? I'm starving."

Relieved, Brian immediately accepts. He rolls over, watching as Justin gets out of bed to find the menu. When he returns, he's dressed. Brian almost feels guilty, but then Justin grabs a bathrobe from the bathroom and hands it to Brian with a reassuring smile. Brian takes the robe and slips into it, almost dizzied by the depth of his gratitude. Before Justin can leave, Brian grabs his wrist and urges, "Come here."

He pulls Justin back into bed and embraces him. Justin murmurs happily and buries his face in Brian's chest. They remain like that, entangled, until room service arrives. When it does, Justin brings it into bed and settles himself in Brian's arms. Brian divides his time between eating and playing with Justin's hair, enjoying the comfortable silence they're sharing. 

Halfway through dinner, when they both have a decent amount of food and alcohol in them, Justin asks, "Can we talk about it?"

Brian wonders what he means by 'it' - their knockout fight? The disturbing lack of fucking? His toxic cunt of a mother? His disaster zone of a family? All of the above? Shit, he hopes not. He's not even nearly ready for that.

Apparently sensing his confusion, Justin touches Brian's leg and says, "We'd normally be having sex by now. I'm not complaining, I just want to know what's going on."

With a sigh, Brian admits, "I have no idea."

"Are you still mad at me? I'd understand if-"

"No," Brian shakes his head, then repeats strenuously,  _"No._ I..." _  
_

He's glad they're positioned like this, with Justin lounging in his arms. It's easier without direct eye contact. Fuck, is he pathetic. Why can't he bring himself to have an honest conversation with his _husband?_ It's been sixteen goddamned years that they've known each other - sixteen  _excellent_ years, for the most part - and he still struggles to communicate. Why is that? What is there to fear? Justin is the person he trusts the most. Justin is kind, and patient, and loving. So what the fuck is stopping him from opening up?

Brian continues berating himself silently until, finally, he can't take it any longer. Driven into a frustrated frenzy, he decides to confess. He closes his eyes (fuck it, he's not ready to give up  _all_  of his cowardice in one go), holds Justin closer, and confesses, "Last night scared me. It frightened me, fighting with you like that. I feel fucking terrible for how I spoke to you, how I treated you."

This confession conveniently skirts around all of the mother-related concerns that are plaguing him, but Brian is quite content with taking baby steps for the timebeing. Almost choking on the sense of vulnerability that pervades him, he admits, "I don't want to lose you. I thought I was going to, and I can't. I... I can't."

"Haven't you heard?" Justin asks, warm laughter spread through his gentle voice. "You're stuck with me."

That's what he always says. It offers Brian some respite from his anxiety, if only for a moment. But once that moment is up, he's forcibly returned to thoughts that have plagued him for years. They hit him hard last night, while they were in the thick of it, him screaming in Justin's face. He has always wondered why Justin bothers to stay with him. He has often found himself waiting for it to happen: for Justin to give up, to fall out of love, to end it all, walk away, and never look back.

Eyes closed, arms locked around Justin, he admits to this. Justin listens, breath held, then turns around and cups Brian's face in his hands.

"Look at me," Justin urges. Reluctantly, Brian opens his eyes and meets Justin's imploring gaze. "This isn't over. Not even close. I am  _not_ giving up on us because of one bad night. I am still madly in love with you and I have no intentions of ending it all and walking away."

"Madly is a fitting word choice," Brian mutters.

Justin shoves him lightly, then quickly draws him back close. "Shut up. Look, even if by some awful chance, it did end..."

Even in hypothetical form, it wounds Brian. It must have the same effect on Justin, who sucks in a wavering breath, his eyes shining with pain. "Even if it all ended, I would still love you. Brian, it's been sixteen years.  _Sixteen years._ You mean more to me than anyone. Even if it ended, what we've shared can't be erased. I will always love you in some way, shape, or form. Whether we're together or not, this...  _you_  will be a part of me for the rest of my life."

Brian opens his mouth to protest; he doesn't want Justin burdened like that for the rest of his days. But Justin silences him with a look and says assuredly, "I wouldn't have it any other way, asshole. Don't even try to convince me otherwise."

Then he turns around, reclining in Brian's arms once again as they finish dinner and dessert. Brian thanks him with a snug embrace and with endless kisses, but they don't fuck. The absence of sex hangs awkardly between them. As Justin falls asleep next to him, Brian lies wide awake, thinking to himself:  _This is how it always goes._   It's like a fucking merry-go-round. Justin pours his heart out and makes Brian feel more loved and secure than he'd ever thought was possible. Sometimes, on his best days, Brian manages to reciprocate. He wishes he were better at this sort of thing. What was it Justin said last night? That it made him feel good, safe, fulfilled?

He's suddenly reminded of something Daphne said to him years ago: how pretending must require a lot of energy, how taxing it must be. Isn't that what he's been doing? Pretending? He's not just hiding from Justin, he's not just keeping things from him - he's pretending. Pretending that he's okay. Pretending that this isn't a big deal, when it is, and always has been. Perhaps worst by far is that he's been pretending that the level of openness they've achieved is sufficient; that it's enough for Justin to exist as an open book while he still keeps so much under wraps. 

 _Time to stop pretending,_ he thinks to himself. Easier said than done, of course, but he's never let that stop him. Ignoring the anxiety corkscrewing its way into his gut, Brian starts piecing together a plan.

*

"Let's go to Yosemite."

It's more of an announcement than a suggestion, Justin thinks, given how decisively Brian says it. Justin glances up from his breakfast and frowns at Brian. "You want to go somewhere else? We only just got here."

Brian shrugs at him, but there's something distinctly mechanical about it, like he's forcing the appearance of nonchalance. "So? We can keep the room, we'll just go away for a few days."

Justin is as intrigued as he is confused. "What brought this on?"

"You've always wanted to go, right? You've always talked about it." Brian's gaze flicks between the cup of coffee he's clutching and Justin. It's still all sounding like this is the decided upon course of action, like this is what they  _have_ to do or... or what? Before Justin can query that, Brian rushes to say, "We could hire a car. I checked already, there's accommodation available. Wouldn't you like to?"

"Yeah. Of course I'd like to." Except, there's something about this suggestion that doesn't sit quite right with Justin. Why run off to Yosemite when they haven't seen any of San Francisco yet? Why does Brian seem so set on the idea? What does Yosemite have that's so important? Why aren't they chin-deep in make-up sex already? Or is that a separate issue? He's losing track of all the fucked-up things crammed uncomfortably between them and it's giving him a goddamned headache.

"So let's go," Brian says. Again, there's that same mysterious sense of urgency. Justin peers at him, trying to riddle this out. Brian averts his gaze and adds, _much_  too casually, "We can go whenever. Today, tomorrow, next week... I just thought it would be... nice."

"Let's go today," Justin says. He puts it gently, trying to conceal the challenge embedded in it. He watches Brian carefully for a reaction, and there it is: panic, alive and crackling in Brian's eyes. Lucky he was watching so closely: it's only there for a split second and then it's gone without a trace. 

Justin anticipates Brian's next movement mere milliseconds before it happens. Brian stands up, smiles tightly, and says, "I'll go and talk to the concierge and make arrangements."

Then he makes an incredibly hasty exit out of their suite. Still mystified, Justin pours himself another cup of coffee. The caffeine helps to clear his head so he can piece it all together, bit by bit. He thinks to himself, _These are the facts: Brian wants to go to escape from our escape and go to Yosemite. He seems set on the idea, but panicked by it as well. It's not that he's trying to do something nice, although that may be a contributing factor... there's something more to this._

Justin pulls out his phone and Googles Yosemite. It's true that he has wanted to go for years. He's especially wanted to go with Brian. Ordinarily, he would love to have something like this fall in his lap. He's on the verge of falling in love with this idea, but he only wonders why it suddenly seems so urgent to Brian.

And then, as he's staring at the map, it hits him. Yosemite is in the middle of fucking nowhere. It's big, and sprawling, and isolated. At this time of year, there won't be many people around, and with the dreary weather, it may well be close to abandoned. Why is Brian seeking out that kind of privacy? Is he preparing to open up about his family?

Justin stares at the map, tracing his finger along the winding trails shown. They've always done well with isolation. Some of their best moments have been shared solely between the two of them. Maybe that's what Brian is counting on. Maybe he's finally ready to talk about... well, everything. This theory, which Justin is increasingly finding to be quite sound, fills him with uneven anticipation. There's a sense of hope but it's dashed with fear.He doesn't know where they're headed or if he's really ready for it. _Wait and see,_ he tries to tell himself, but that sounds far too simplistic.

*

The park is even more beautiful than Justin had hoped it would be. He's so excited to finally be there that he almost forgets his theory as to why they're there. It serves him well, in the end - Justin's blind enthusiasm proves infectious. Brian eagerly suggests a hike, and off they go. They delve into the depths of the forest surrounding their cabin and walk together, hands joined, enjoying the tranquil scenery. 

It's only when they stop to rest that Justin is reminded of his theory. Brian sits down on a fallen tree trunk and smiles at Justin - it's that same sad, lonely smile Justin saw two days ago in the kitchen back home. He's about to be proven right, isn't he? He still doesn't know if he's ready, but there's no turning back now. He only hopes that he is ready and that he can give Brian what he needs.

Justin sits down, settling his hand on Brian's knee. "You okay?"

It's such a stupid fucking question. He regrets it immediately. He knows the answer, so why ask? Brian doesn't respond. He stares sharply at Justin for a while, like he's still searching for something. Then, abruptly, he turns away and stares into the thick forest surrounding them. 

Silence surrounds them for what feels like an eternity. Justin waits, and waits, and waits; all he can think to do is knead Brian's leg gently, hoping it offers him some comfort.

He stops when Brian starts to speak. His voice sounds so strange - strained and hollow, and entirely uncomfortable. Justin has never heard anything like it.

He's certainly never heard anything like what Brian has to say.

"The first time I remember anything happening, I was four." Brian pauses, his mouth twisting bitterly. "I was running through the house. I knocked something over and broke it - I don't even remember what, now - and he grabbed me by my throat and pinned me up against the wall. He told me if I ever did anything like that ever again, that I'd fucking regret it. Then he dropped me and left me lying there."

Justin's mind goes blank. He sits there, frozen, his hand tense on Brian's leg. Clearing his throat, Brian continues, "My ankle was swollen for days. My mother told me it was 'nothing' and that I should stop 'whining'. It was probably just a bad sprain, but what if it hadn't been? It was always like that. I don't remember a single day of my childhood where I didn't have at least one bruise on me. And those were the good times - when maybe, just _maybe_ , I could keep the grand total under three."

Nausea collects in the pit of Justin's stomach. Brian takes a deep breath then says, his voice heavier, "When I was ten, he tried to hit Claire. She'd been caught kissing some boy. I'd never seen my father touch her before... it was always me or mom. Mostly me. When he went for Claire, it was like I saw red. I got in between them and pushed him. Claire ran off. He... grabbed my face. I remember that part the worst, because his hand stunk of tobacco and cheap booze. It doesn't sound so bad, I know-"

 _It sounds fucking ghastly,_ Justin thinks, anguished, but he doesn't say it. 

"- but it was terrifying. I couldn't see. I couldn't breathe. Then he pushed me over and kicked me in the gut."

Brian falls silent for a while, a pained grimace forming unbecomingly on his face. After a long while, he admits, "The next time he went after Claire, I was too scared to do anything. He called her a no-good whore, hit her, and split her lip right open... it was swollen for two weeks."

He startles Justin by laughing, sourly. "Maybe that's why she hates me so much. Because I didn't defend her the second time. I let her get hurt. Then again, I wasn't the only one. My mother didn't do shit to help. My mother was nowhere. I mean, she was right there. She would be there, watching, or pretending not to watch, or whatever, but she was totally absent. She was never there for us. She never tried to protect anyone but herself. I never understood the two of them... they existed in three states, never anywhere beyond or in between. They were either pretending to be some perfect couple, out in public, for everyone to see and applaud... or they were ignoring each other, icing each other out... or they were fighting and scrapping and screeching at each other."

Listening in abject horror, Justin struggles to contain his tears. It's so hard. It's destroying him, hearing Brian confess to all of this. Seeking out comfort for both of them, Justin reaches over and takes Brian's hand. Brian swallows, then inhales uneasily, then confesses, "That last one probably sounds fucking familiar. The way I treated you the other night... that was what they were like. That's how he treated her. I fucking  _hate_ myself for doing that to you, even more than I've hated myself for letting Claire get hurt."

"Don't," Justin pleads, squeezing Brian's hand in his. 

Brian seemingly ignores this plea and continues, lamenting, "My mother still tries to pretend that he was some kind of saint. So does Claire. They're both fucking delusional. And he had so many people fooled... take Mikey, for instance. When we first became friends, Michael got all these ideas in his head about how great my dad was. My dad was  _terrifying._ And I never understood... I _never_ understood, because I'd go to school every day and listen to Mikey complain about how Deb was nagging him, or how she babied him too much... and all I could think was, 'Let's trade. You take my parents and I'll have your mom.' Because I would have given  _anything_ to have a mother like Deb."

He then shrugs and concedes, "Michael figured it out eventually. Or, parts of it. Nobody's ever really known the whole story, except for them. My father, Claire, and her... she saw it all. She knew what he was capable of and she let it continue. And you know, she had me _convinced_ it was my fault, too. I spent longer than I care to admit believing she was right and that I deserved it. Claire made me think that too. He'd get drunk, scream at mom, scream at me, maybe beat the crap out of me if I gave him any lip back... or even if I didn't... and they'd blame me. Or they'd just pretend it didn't happen."

Justin can't take it any longer - the tears begin to fall. He feels them streaming down his face and feels helpless to stop them. Brian sighs heavily. "As I got older, I outgrew their bullshit. I knew what was happening. I knew it wasn't normal. I knew it was completely and entirely fucked up. And yet, they still wanted to play pretend. Sometimes, I'd go to my room and hole myself up in there, to get away, to be on my own... and I would count the bruises. That made it real. That turned it into cold, hard, unavoidable fact. Most of the time I hid them from everyone, but I remember occasionally going down to breakfast with my sleeves rolled up and my shirt unbuttoned just far enough that a whole sea of bruises were plainly visible. It didn't make a fucking difference. She ignored them. She ignored  _me."_

Justin draws in a shaky breath. He waits, wondering if there will be more. But there won't be - he knows this as soon as he sees Brian straightening up, his body going rigid. Brian closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and says, "And... that's all we have time for today."

He forces a smile; the sight of it cuts Justin to his core. "Save the pity and 'I'm sorries' for someone else and, uh, fill in the blanks as you will. I'm pretty sure you can figure out how the rest of it goes."

After a few scarily still seconds, Brian turns and looks at him. Justin wishes he weren't crying, but it's too late to do anything about it now. He sees sorrow forming on Brian's face and doesn't know what to do. He wants to say  _I'm so sorry_ but that isn't what Brian wants or needs. It takes Justin a moment to figure out what he might be able to offer. He stands up and extends his hand, relieved beyond words when Brian grasps it eagerly. He pulls Brian to his feet and envelops him in a gentle embrace, holding him more tenderly than he can ever remember either one of them doing before. Brian sinks into it, locking his arms tightly around Justin's waist. Justin doesn't say anything; he's not sure if there's anything that can be said. Besides, all that really matters is that Brian is here with him, safely held in his arms, far removed from all that hideous hurt. Well, maybe not completely. Justin can sense the scars running deep beneath the surface. He runs his hand up and down Brian's back, hoping it will do something to heal him.

They remain like that for what seems like forever. It reminds Justin of that night outside Babylon, holding each other endlessly as chaos fled past them every which way. There's no chaos surrounding them now, only what is raging inside the two of them. Still, he can feel that diminishing gradually as they hold each other. Once again, he finds himself thinking:  _we've always done well with isolation._

Eventually, with the light growing dim, Brian eases out of his embrace. He cups Justin's face in his hands, wipes the tears away with soft caresses of his thumbs, and says softly, "Let's go back."

Justin blinks back the last of his tears and meets Brian's gaze. Beyond all the love and gratitude to be found, there's something else - something fiery, something hungry. Justin smiles at him and agrees, "Let's."

*

When they return to the cabin, they're on each other in an instant. Brian swoops Justin into his arms and hauls him over to the bed, kissing him hungrily all the while. At first, all of his instincts are screaming at him to take Justin hard and fast, but as soon as they break apart to undress the mood changes. Bit by bit, it trickles into something slower.

They take their time, luxuriate in the long overdue reunion, and make love tenderly.  _Like the first time,_ Brian thinks, almost laughing at how sickeningly sentimental that is. Justin notices the smile tugging at his lips and returns it, his bright grin lighting up the room. Brian drinks up the sight of it, then kisses him, and kisses him, and kisses him. His mind is muddled by passion, but somewhere in the midst of it all, one clear thought comes shining through: _This is a different kind of refuge. A better one, maybe._ He can feel it healing him, piecing him back together gradually. As their bodies move as one, as their mouths stay fused together, everything else ceases to exist.  _  
_

*

They fuck all night, newly addicted to one another, until they've reached the point of exhaustion. Then they steal a few hours of sleep before waking to continue fucking. The sense of relief leaves Brian light-headed - he's back, they're back, and things are returning to what they ought to be. Or maybe they're moving somewhere different, somewhere new... he can't decide. It's too hard to concentrate with Justin tonguing his cock. He gives up. It is what it is; fuck over-analysing it.

Mid-morning, they're recovering by the fireplace when the curator calls Justin with updates. One particularly disheartening update is that Brian's mother has continued to show up repeatedly, 'kindly requesting' to see Justin. Brian listens with relief and pride as Justin unequivocally informs the curator that Joan Kinney is to be banned from the gallery immediately. After using some very colourful terminology to describe her, Justin adds that they shouldn't hesitate to call security if she attempts to return. As soon as Justin hangs up, Brian pounces on him. Apparently there's no aphrodisiac in the world like hearing your husband call your estranged mother a 'psychotic bitch from hell'.

Over dinner that night, Justin takes his hand and says, "If you ever want to talk about it again, I'm here." Brian appreciates that. He particularly appreciates that Justin said 'want' rather than 'need'. 'Need' sounds so desperate and pathetic. 'Want'... well, that he can deal with. He kisses Justin's hand and replies, "I might take you up on that."

Cynthia calls the following day and assures him that his mother is history - security has dealt with her by barring her from the building. Upon hearing this joyous news, Brian finally feels like he can breathe again. Clever thing that she is, Cynthia then swiftly changes the subject and starts gloating about how well everyone is doing. Smirking to himself, Brian threatens to never return. It should be fine, after all, since they're apparently thriving in his absence. Cynthia threatens him right back, warning, "Your ass had better be back here soon, Kinney. Fucking irresponsible, taking a three week vacation. Honestly."

Despite her misgivings, Brian is rather enjoying their time away. Day by day, more weight lifts from his shoulders. Day by day, they return to where they should be. Day by day, everything looks a little brighter.

On their last day in Yosemite, they reluctantly agree to cease fucking until they return to San Francisco so that they can see more of the park. They spend the morning hiking, finally coming to rest when Justin finds scenery that inspires him. They settle on a bridge overlooking a waterfall. Brian hangs his legs over the edge and stares at the rushing water below. The sound and sight of it ease away what little tension remains within him. He breathes in deep, immersing himself in this perfectly serene, perfectly _safe_ moment. 

"We  _need_ to come back here," Justin enthuses, his nose buried in his sketchbook. "I seriously think I could spend the next century here, and not run out of things to paint."

Brian peers over Justin's shoulder, admiring the latest sketch in Justin's  _very_ full sketchbook. It was empty when they arrived in Yosemite and now there are scarce few pages left. Fortunately, there are fresh sketchbooks aplenty waiting in San Francisco.

The dreary weather has let up, affording them blue skies and bright sunshine. Brian stretches out under it, enjoying the warmth of it on his face. He likes it here. Just like he'd hoped it would be, it's peaceful, with a sense of privacy to it. Right now it's just the two of them, alone together, listening to the rush of the creek below and the crash of a waterfall nearby. He can't think of anywhere else he'd rather be.

Stealing another look at Justin's sketch, Brian suggests, "Maybe we should come back next year for our anniversary."

This is clearly an idea of which Justin approves wholeheartedly; he beams at Brian, dazzlingly bright, and nods eagerly. Then he blushes a little and muses, "Speaking of which..."

Brian kisses his shoulder. "Hmmm?"

"I was thinking," Justin says with a shy smile, "What if we became one of those insufferably lovesick couples who renew their vows every so often?"

He sounds vaguely reluctant to share this suggestion, as though he thinks Brian won't be receptive. In fact, Brian finds the idea most intriguing. He smiles back at Justin and says encouragingly, "I'm listening."

This returns the ridiculously sunny smile to Justin's face. He puts away his sketchbook and turns to face Brian, sitting cross-legged. "It'd be nice, right? I don't mean some big fancy event... I thought maybe just us two, in some fantastic location, remembering why we got married and celebrating what we love about each other."

He looks at Brian hopefully, then lights up as Brian nods approvingly. "And I was _also_   thinking - we could try next year as a practice run. If it works for us, we could do it again the following, and maybe invite Gus along. I know he's always said he's okay with having missed our ceremony, but I think it would be really great to include him. Plus, he'll be eighteen then, and we could take him somewhere amazing and have an awesome time with him."

How can he possibly say no to such an ingenious idea? Brian grabs Justin's hand and brings it to his mouth, kissing it before saying, "I'd love that."

Justin grins even bigger, then returns to watching the waterfall. Brian follows suit for a while, but soon enough his gaze gravitates back to his husband. "Same vows as last time, or...?"

"Our vows were nice. They were simple," Justin recalls, smiling softly. "I always liked that. Then again, maybe we should be a little more inventive."

"Invent away," Brian laughs, reclining and lying on his back. "What do you think you'll say?"

He watches as Justin abandons his sketchbook and comes to lie down as well, pressing his left arm to Brian's right and joining their hands. Staring up at the trees overhanging the bridge, Justin says, "I guess I might say that... we've come really far from where we started. And that wherever we're going next, I'm looking forward to it."

Brian hums appreciatively and turns his head, pressing a kiss to Justin's cheek. Justin smiles and asks softly, "What do you think you'll say?"

"I think I'd say..." he pauses, staring at Justin, then up at the trees again as they rustle in the breeze. "I think I would say that even though I spent a long time believing it never could be, that life is good."

He really didn't think it would be, but it is. Brian thinks back to all the years he spent believing life was pointless, punishing, and bound to end up disappointing you, if not destroying you entirely. He feels Justin's gaze pinned to him and gladly meets it, soaking up the infinite love that's staring back at him. Smiling, and leaning in for another kiss, Brian says, "That's what I'll say: that life is really good."

**The End**


End file.
